


Left of Center

by rei_c



Series: Mashups and Crossovers [5]
Category: American Assassin (2017), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Beacon Hills Deadpool, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 13:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20761196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: Every part of Mitch is still aching from Dubai when Kennedy gives him a folder and tells him to make a trip.





	Left of Center

Mitch walks into the kitchen slowly, instincts tripped by something -- he's not sure what, but it's better to listen to his gut when it comes to being in this house. His caution pays off when he sees Kennedy sitting at the table with Hurley. The table's set for three; it doesn't sound like anyone else is in the house and he doesn't see anyone waiting outside. He nods at Kennedy, skirts carefully to the chair across from Hurley. When he sits down, his ribs ache. His shoulder pulls, dull throbbing spreading out across his back and neck as he reaches for the cup of coffee waiting for him. 

It's been a week since Mitch got back from Dubai and every part of him still hurts. 

Kennedy pushes a folder across the table to Mitch. Mitch looks down, doesn't open it, looks back up. His eyes dart between the two. Kennedy's as blank as always but Hurley seems -- impatient. 

"Soft mission," Kennedy says. "Nothing that should aggravate your injuries." She pauses, glances at Hurley. Her eyes narrow as she shakes her head. She moves her gaze back to Mitch, says, "In-country." 

Mitch opens his mouth but closes it again before he can say anything. In-country. They're not supposed to operate inside the country. Potential missions fly through his head -- domestic terrorists, radicals with soft targets, scoping out another agent for Orion -- but he finally gives up and flips open the folder. 

Beacon Hills. Sounds nice. Apart from the rapid movement of assassins toward it, that is. 

"We've gotten word of a deadpool," Kennedy says. "We're not interested in any of the targets listed but the players gathering to take advantage of it? Some of the best freelancers out there." 

"I thought I was under house arrest," Mitch says. 

Hurley snorts; Kennedy and Mitch both look at him but he just shakes his head, holds up one hand. 

Kennedy sighs, finishes her coffee and stands up. "Read the file, head to California, and figure out what the hell's going on." 

\--

Beacon Hills is -- strange. The town seems nice, pretty standard layout, but there's an underlying _mood_ to the place that's just slightly left of center. There's a police station that looks woefully understaffed and a sheriff's office that's barely any better. One of the deputies has the bearing of a former special forces man, someone who's seen a lot and retired to civilian life, but he still looks haunted. The sheriff does, too, though, and so do a couple of kids from Kennedy's list. 

He's sitting in a coffee shop across the street from the sheriff station, keeping an inconspicuous eye on the people walking in and out, when one of those kids sits down across from him. 

Mitch cocks his head, asks, "Can I help you?" 

"I'm Stiles Stilinski," the kid says. "But you already knew that. So. Why're you spying on my dad and my friends? And just _how_ are we related?" 

"How are -- what?" Mitch asks. He's been expecting the interrogation about his reasons for being here from the moment Stiles sat down, but he's completely taken aback by the second question. 

Stiles scoffs. "You have the look of a Gajos -- you're a dead ringer for my cousin Miłosz. Put you down in the middle of a family reunion and no one would be able to pick you out; we all look like twins. Or triplets. Multiples. Whatever, you know what I mean. Anyway. Where in your history was your Gajos?"

Mitch studies Stiles, takes in the hair, the skin, the moles and eyes and the way his shoulders are high and tense. It's true; give Stiles ten years and fifty pounds of muscle, anyone on the street would assume them to be brothers. "My grandmother," he says. "Dorotka." 

"Dorotka," Stiles murmurs, leaned back in his chair and thinking. "Let's see, Dorotka was my mom's great-aunt, which makes you mom's cousin, which makes you my -- third cousin? Second cousin -- second cousin once removed? One of those." Stiles sits forward then and pins his gaze on Mitch. "Anyway, we can figure that out later. Whatever you are, you're family, which means we'll help. Whatever you're here to do, we'll help. Unless you're here about the deadpool, in which case, please don't kill any of my friends." 

Mitch looks around them; no one's sitting close enough to overhear -- he thinks, anyway -- but there's a trio of people watching them from across the cafe and every so often the blinds in one of the sheriff's windows twitches like someone's peering through. Mitch would be impressed with how many people are spying on them if he wasn't amused at how obvious they all are. 

"Tell me why your friends are on the deadpool," Mitch says, "and why I should let a cousin -- whichever degree of remove -- be friends with people who end up on a hit list." 

Stiles holds Mitch's eyes for a long, silent moment before he turns to look at the table across the room and tilts his head. Mitch follows his gaze, raises an eyebrow when he sees the redhead finish the last sip of her espresso and stand up. The other two with her -- male, one of them older, one of them the same age as her, as Stiles -- also stand up. The younger one leaves with the redhead, the older one makes his way over. 

Mitch is curious about this one. Derek Hale, originally on the list for fifteen million, walks like he's prowling. Mitch would assume military training or some kind of gang affiliation if he hadn't read the bios Kennedy put together on the deadpool's targets. Dead family, arrested but never charged, close to a wide range of high schoolers. 

Derek stands behind Stiles, puts his hands on Stiles' shoulders. Stiles relaxes into the touch, most of the tension in his body disappearing even as he asks, "Scott?" 

"Up to you," Derek says. "Lydia's a firm 'no.'" 

Stiles tilts his head backwards; Mitch watches as Derek's eyes fix on Stiles' throat. "You?" Stiles asks. 

Derek tears his eyes away from Stiles' neck, glances at Mitch. "He's your family. The thought of telling someone else doesn't sit well with me. But it's your decision."

Stiles moves, sets one hand on top of one of Derek's. "Thanks," he says, soft. "I know it's not -- ideal." 

"Can't be any worse than what we've dealt with," Derek says. He sounds supremely unconcerned but Stiles must not be fooled. Mitch isn't fooled, either. "If it goes south, we'll figure it out." 

Stiles sits straight again, pins his eyes on Mitch, and says, "Come to dinner. Meet my dad. Then we'll tell you." 

Mitch weighs the offer, the benefits and potential drawbacks, and says, "Sure."


End file.
